Looking back at old entries as first anniversary of blogging draws close. i realized that the greatest pressure on court seldom comes from opponents. i was so scared of my own teammates down there, much much more than my defender. People like me are perhaps better suited for individual games. Too bad i didn't see that earlier, and too bad i love the game too much. But the worst is of course that i thought i was good. Maybe i should have chosen Chinese chess in the first place. When was the last time i touched a ball anyway? Think it's six weeks already. Will i slowly forget how to play altogether? That'd be interesting, learning basketball all over again...

Later in the afternoon, after the DSTA scholarship tea session (ain't really keen on going, especially since the venue is so out of the way, but am kinda worried that they keep a tab on you or something), i have a trial with the old maestro. Guess he wants to see if i can still tell a guitar from a cucumber or something. i've been waiting so long for the lessons to start, but more importantly i've been anticipating the acquisition of my membership card, which grants 5% off almost all Yamaha merchandise, including the guitar of my desire. That's cool because Yamaha would then have to swallow the whole of GST plus a bit more (do your maths, dude). :)

Having a blog is like having a home in cyberspace. And your home looks like mine, Amanda!  ¶

11:37 |

 

Bluepen saved the day again! The back door of the bus was jinxed by me the minute i boarded. The door panels would spring open whenever the driver tried to close them. So while all the passengers stood or sat like dead logs, the driver tried to amend but to no avail. All the while i was thinking, "Why not somebody near the back door just give the panels a push?" But nobody even moved a finger. After a couple of minutes, i said, "Uncle, i'll go behind to give it a push, ok?" So there i went, down the bus and up again from the back door, and pushed the panels close. They sprang back again on the first attempt but gave in on the second just like the Evil Vending Machine* did. And everyone could go to work on time. All hail to me! :p Needless to say, so disappointed with our society for a minute.

* Refer to chapter on the EVM. :)  ¶

22:14 |

 

It's useless. Everytime I think about it I just want to cry. And the harder I think about it the more I want to cry. Even then, even though I absolutely kill myself by being like that, I still want to think about it. I still want to pick up those little crumbs - too little to be erased, from the dirty gaps between the floorboards, the cob-webbed corners, the infinitesimal space between the bits and bytes. i have no idea what i'm searching for. A selfish purpose? A long-awaited reply? A deeper understanding? Would they make me feel better, or forget, or free from this guilt? Perhaps i'll never be free unless a miracle happens.  ¶

13:37 |

 

If books are comparable to movies, then To Kill A Mockingbird is most alike Forrest Gump. It has that enchanting property of being moving, funny, adorable, inspiring, encouraging, and thrilling all at once. The beginning chapters progress slowly, like a long, lazy summer with no thunderstorm. Then events explode one after another, dragging the reader in like a whirlpool. Every character is so life-like. If there is any fault, it would be that slightest lack of subtlety in Lee's writing. That would be picking bones in eggshell, of course. i never thought an author whose book is fit to be chosen as Literature text could be so very charming. Now i do.  ¶

18:29 |

 

Oda a Don Pablo

Oh Chile hermoso
¿Por qué su cuerpo tan poderosamente se estira?
¿Podría ser que su mente es justa como estrecho?
¿O quizás su alma es laden con tristeza?

Pero usted consolida a niños del pacíficos
Niños humildes que, con la piel ennegrecida,
Pida los regalos de plata del profundo
Para intercambiar para nada solamente de la subsistencia diaria.

Y usted consolidó a Pablo del Isla
Que no tenía nada solamente amor
Y todo y amor
Y palabras, que canta en las voces de los mares
Gritando, susurrando, acariciando y barriendo
Cada uno que cruza su trayectoria, lejos,
A donde el colindar venido azul y amarillo
Y luto en placer, en dolor, día después día después día

No, él que se cayó de las nubes en un ala quebrada
Su avaricia para líricas su solamente pecado
Pertenecido no a la liga de hombres más altos, que se
Ocupan no de verso sentido
Pero algo del contrario
Todavía sus ojos fueron empañados, y pasos vacilaron, también.

Pero llámelo detrás, oh Chile madre
Llámelo detrás de las orillas asoleadas de Singapur
Llámelo detrás de las montañas nevosas de España
Llámelo detrás de los llanos herbosos de Francia
Llámelo detrás de su tristeza y dolor interminable

A donde él puede ser que todavía encuentre paz
En las aguas tempestuosas que lo oscilaron
Entonces llevó a cabo su mano y calmado le
Porque esto es donde sus líneas habían comenzado
Y en el silencio de las noches del pleno verano,
Se tatarean.



Ode to Don Pablo

Oh beautiful Chile,
Why is your body so forcefully stretched?
Could it be that your mind is just as narrow?
Or perhaps your soul is laden with sorrow?

But you nurture children of the Pacific
Humble children who, with blackened skin,
Beg for silver gifts from the deep
To exchange for nothing but the daily keep.

And you nurtured Pablo of the Isla
Who had nothing but love
And everything and love
And words, that sing in the voices of the seas
Crying, whispering, caressing and sweeping
Everyone who comes in their path, away,
To where the blue and yellow come adjoining
And mourning in pleasure, in pain, day after day after day

No, he who fell from the clouds on a broken wing,
His avarice for lyrics his only sin
Belonged not to the league of higher men, who
Deal not with heartfelt verse
But quite the reverse
Yet his eyes were fogged, and steps faltered, too.

But call him back, oh Chile mother
Call him back from the sunny shores of Singapore
Call him back from snow-covered mountains of Spain
Call him back from the grassy plains of France
Call him back from his sorrow and never-ending pain

To where he might yet find peace
In the stormy waters that rocked him
Then held his hand and soothed him
For this is where his lines had begun
And in the silence of midsummer nights,
Are sung.  ¶

23:20 |